


Hallucinatory fissure

by uvauvb



Category: Anti-Nazi - Fandom, Gestapo - Fandom, Military Uniforms - Fandom, Nazi Germany - Fandom, Third Reich - Fandom, WWII - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:56:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 13,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25312690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uvauvb/pseuds/uvauvb
Summary: Winter von Karlberg, a young Wehrmacht officer during the Second World war, hated the Gestapo like many of his colleagues until he met Captain Iser...
Kudos: 1





	1. Captain Iser's first setback

In 1942, the Netherlands  
Today, a young SS captain, Werner Iser, was in a bad mood. An hour earlier, his boss, MajorSturm, had called him in and given him a dressing-up after Major Karlberg, the local Wehrmacht officer who coordinated intelligence with the security service, had been attacked and wounded by British intelligence yesterday. If this was anything to go by in any other German-occupied country. However, it would be a rare event for the Local Gestapo and Nazi security services, who had just appealed to Berlin to claim full control of the British underground in the Netherlands.underground in the Netherlands.  
Last fall, is the mood is bad, hazel captain, with his quick break the code of the British spy language talent, and in a subsequent anti-spyware campaign captures a British secret radio, captured radio operator fatigue Wells, and in a very short period of time will be a group of British spy net.  
Lieutenant Iser, who had just become a Gestapo officer, came up with a bold counterintelligence plan. He pretended to be a British intelligence agent, and used the transmitting device to contact British intelligence, but his plan was disdainfully rejected by his boss.   
The rigorous German gestapo thought that it was ridiculous to pretend to be a British agent transmitting back to London. These intelligence officers have unique check code rules when they send messages. They must misspell a word in a fixed place in a piece of telegram. A piece of telegram without any mistakes, just like a blooming flower prompt enemies. This is false information. So the British, alerted to the lack of a check code, knew their Dutch spy ring had been broken.  
At his insistence, however, his plan was approved, and at first there was little expectation of lieutenant Iser's wild ideas. Two telemessages were sent in succession to London, and there was no particular response. This group of senior intelligence gestapo also agreed that Iser's antics could finally be put to rest.  
Ignoring the jeers of his colleagues, Iser stubbornly persisted in sending his report to London, and the miracle happened! In his third dispatch, he finally received a response from London: "Preparing a landing site for airborne, the Dutch request for assistance will be met." At the same time there is a blame, "There is no checksum code in this message, please pay attention in the future."  
The next day, Lieutenant Iser received four weapons boxes and a British spy parachuted as promised. An hour later, the London headquarters also received a successful cable parachuted in the Netherlands from the Courier and agreed on a new check code.  
Lieutenant Iser made it! He made it!  
The news stunned Iser's conservative gestapo colleagues, who tormented the British spies for a hint of a conspiracy theory. A few days later, the operator confessed that their intelligence community had always been so lax about checking-code rules that they often didn't bother to set the check code when sending their own reports.   
The conclusion of this blunder stunned all the veteran German intelligence officers who believed in preciseness, and Lieutenant Iser became a hero and received a beautiful iron cross.  
In the following months, more spies were "landed" in Holland under the command of Lieutenant Iser. With little difficulty, Iser received the British spies along with their radio stations. Using this equipment, Lieutenant Iser quickly established 14 channels of communication with London. The information that the British intelligence services get from different radio stations every day is actually from Lieutenant Iser's small, dimly-lit office. Iser spent her days trying to figure out how to play 14 people at once. During that period, the poor young man was nearly schizophrenic from the acting challenge.  
By Christmas of that year, the Young Gestapo was in complete control of London's spy network in the Netherlands. With the triumph, Iser also went from lieutenant to captain and took charge of counter intelligence in the area.  
But today, Iser was slapped in the face by the news that Major Karlberg had been attacked and wounded by the British. He used to perform the whole British agent net in Netherlands ALONE. But the Maultier myth seemed to be shaken.  
"Maybe there are some British intelligence agents I don't control?"  
Indeed, he wondered, he could not believe that any of the British agents in his barrel-heavy anti-spy network could escape his surveillance and be in no hurry to escape, with the leisure to lurk in a German camp and attack a completely unrelated German officer.  
"Major Karlberg says he has a firm certificate that the attack was carried out by the British military!"  
Major Gestapo looked at Iser with a frown.  
It was Major Sturm, a conservative Nazi intelligence officer, who discovered Iser's talents, brought the young man into the Gestapo and worked hard to cultivate him.  
But now his perfect work has flaws that could be questioned.  
"So please leave your work for a while and go to Major Karlberg.  
I'll give you a week to devote to this matter, and I'll find someone to take your place on a temporary basis."  
Major Sturm coolly kicked Him out of his office without looking at Him.  
In his severe frustration, Captain Iser hardly knew how he had managed to get out of the Gestapo building.


	2. Frustration, anger

Winter von Karlberg  
“The damned old Junker!”  
Iser could not help venting his anger on the Wehrmacht major, whom he had never met.  
He did not know the major, because he had just been transferred, and because Iser had been on the front lines of the German counterintelligence campaign for half a year.  
There was nothing in his life except work. As to those Wehrmacht, who had come to enjoy the Netherlands vacation, never existed in his sight. During that time, it seems he was the only man fighting in the Netherlands.  
The reason why he would call each other "old Juncker"is probably just from of the name of the "VON".  
It was half an hour after Iser's car zoomed past the door of the office building that he realized he had made a stupid mistake that no ordinary intelligence officer should have. Not only had he done no prior research into the attack, but he had no knowledge of major Karlberg's background, even though his car was no more than three kilometers from the major physically.

'Who CARES!”  
In any case, he never worked in the way his Gestapo colleagues did -- everyone was as rigid as a precision mechanical part.  
The captain Iser his bright blue eyes like the atmosphere in the woods, cold, he stared at the calm in front of the rugged road, don't worry about the dark would suddenly appear a guerrilla in the woods or resistance fighters, this is because from the wehrmacht camp here has been very close, also because he believes in his own hard work, but no matter how he believes the wehrmacht and the gestapo, he still believe the waist loaded pistol.   
As the car was about to leave the woods, a sudden rustle alerted Iser, who controlled the steering wheel with one hand and groped consciously for his belt gun as he continued to speed away.

"Wham"  
A loud neigh and a dark shadow came over him. He slammed on the brakes, but his one-handed steering wheel couldn't hold the car, and the wheels jarred against the ground. Then the car spun out of control and slammed into the huge oak tree. The moment the car was stabilized, his right hand was up with the pistol, his left arm holding his right arm in a brace, his right forefinger firmly on the trigger to aim at the intruder.

" whinnies "   
The heavy breathing of the animals, the tramp of the horseshoes on the ground, and the nonchalant expression of the white rider on the horse's back made a comical contrast with the tense officer opposite, holding his pistol in the standard combat position.   
"Stop!" Shouted Iser in her fluent Dutch to the young rider opposite. "Who are you?"   
As he spoke, his right index finger pressed against the trigger, the loaded pistol ready to fire.   
The young officer, in his SS uniform and fluent Dutch, startled the rider on the opposite horse, looked up and down at the nervous SS officer hiding behind the car with his gun in his hand, and let go of the REINS.   
"My dear Haupt-sturm-führer," said the young man opposite, who had no identity at all in his dress, straightening himself up on horseback, and looking down on the nervous SS officer, speaking fluent German with a Berlin accent, relieved Iser of his tension and quickly threw him into another embarrassment.  
"With all due respect, your gun posture is impeccable! But it was only a pistol, and the recoil was not so strong that a single blow would not have affected its trajectory too much, and I was so near you that -- you needn't have held it up with both hands like a girl --"  
Amid the harsh taunts, HE finally saw the face of the man, a young man about his own age, with his black hair cut in a straight line behind his forehead. It was the kind of hairdo he hated least, the standard in the Wehrmacht's manual.  
The berlin-accented German and the standard Wehrmacht hairdo seemed to have a certain conviction that calmed his nerves.  
“German?”  
Finally, Iser stepped out of the car that was covering him, his pistol muzzle down, his finger still on the trigger.  
The rider did not respond. With a mocking smile, he turned his horse's head and disappeared deep into the woods.  
The cost of the false alarm was that his car stalled within a mile of the Wehrmacht camp, so he left it on the road and walked on her own. He had barely gone a few paces when the sound of hooves came from behind him.  
"Well, the SS doesn't always get the best stuff! It is said that wehrmacht vehicles can still crawl back to the logistic repair station every time they are hit by various bombs and mines.”  
The familiar voice, the familiar ridicule, must be the same back just the face of indifference. From this familiar vitriol, Iser could have concluded that the man who had just caused his car to break down must be some junior officer in the wehrmacht camp ahead.  
"But...  
Where are you going?  
Should I take you with me?"  
The rider looked at the visible target ahead and made a very melodramatic invitation, his voice full of schadenfreude.  
"Thank you! Don't have to! I'll be right there."  
With a faint snub, Iser rejected the false offer.  
'What a pity!  
With that the rider galloped away from him, then disappeared not far ahead at their common destination.


	3. This is deception writ large

Captain Iser got an unusual look when he showed his identification card to the guard at the camp gate. In general, wehrmacht sentries were wary of the Gestapo's arrival. It was probably the sentry who was used to the gestapo's swaggering, insolent manner. As a Gestapo, he would have made his appearance by proudly handing out his identification card through a car window in front of a sentry and then walking away. Today, however, it was unusual for him to walk.  
As the sentry checked his papers, Iser saw the rider again, his white riding costume striking against the plain grey of the Wehrmacht uniforms.  
A private, who had just taken his horse and was listening to him in a low voice, straightened his heels and shouted, "Yes, Sir!"  
Iser knew that he had not misidentified him.  
The man was indeed an officer in the Wehrmacht.  
The unidentified Wehrmann officer saw him at the same time, and when Iser came in from his post, he greeted him with a smile.  
"I have business with Major Karlberg. Please take me to him!"  
To avoid the unnecessary and likely unpleasantness, Iser preceded the conversation with a quick Nazi salute and a routine statement of purpose.  
With the same apologetic but cynical smile, the rider replied, "I'm sorry, but the Major was wounded in an attack the other day, and if we hear gestapo calling for him again, I'm afraid his wounds will never be healed again!"  
'I was sent to investigate the attack on the Major...'  
As Iser finished, the rider paused for a moment. He then gave him a military salute and laughed, with an infinitely strange smile.  
"Hello, I'm Lieutenant Borrmann, Lieutenant Karlberg's lieutenant.  
As adjutant I was responsible for his day-to-day programme. "  
Iser thought it was a bit odd, but after some thought he nodded politely and forced a smile.  
After this, he found the atmosphere even stranger...  
Even the eyes of the soldiers passing by looked strange.  
The major's adjutant, an enthusiastic young man, did not seem to care about the wehrmacht's frumpily formal manner and was in no hurry to change back into full uniform.  
He ushered Captain Iser directly into a large sitting room outside the Major's office.

On a small round table in the living room there was a fine plate, which was comical because of the excess of chocolate and sweets.

'Don't mention it, an Englishman's present!  
The young adjutant smiled, more sincerely than he had just done.  
Iser is not surprised. Recently, because of his hard work, he plays 14 British intelligence agents every day like a schizophrenic, constantly reporting his work progress and material needs. At his suggestion, the British continuously drop all kinds of good things into this rich land, from ammunition equipment to candy, tobacco and alcohol... In short, all the necessities of life, as long as the he-controlled radio asked, the British would do their best to satisfy them.  
So Iser was delighted to break away from a piece of chocolate and enjoy the spoils of her own wisdom.   
'I'm sorry, but the Major really can't see you at this time. But if you have any questions about the attack, you can ask me first. As for your car, don't worry. I've already had it repaired, and I expect it will be in even better condition when you leave than when you arrive."  
Such a meticulous, well-rounded style convinced Him of the man's adjutant status and of his superior, Major Karlberg, as a typical stuffy, conformist Junker aristocrat. The idea struck Iser, and since he had been in such a hurry that he had forgotten to consult major Karlberg's files, it was obvious that it was necessary to talk to the young adjutant now. As an intelligence officer, you always have to know something about the background of the person you're investigating.  
Within minutes, Iser was confident in the questioning skills he had developed in her intelligence work.  
In a few words, he confirmed from the young adjutant what he had previously judged to be the major -- rigid, stubborn, a junker aristocrat through and through, the military style of the old Prussian officers' regiment, some connections among the generals and marshals of the Wehrmacht...  
Iser continued to chat pleasantly with the naive young adjutant opposite, but the conversation continued, consciously or unconsciously, to explore.  
"Well, then, it's a little slow for an officer who's been in two wars to become a major..."

He spoke slowly on purpose, and in the middle of his sentence was interrupted by a young man in a horseman's dress.

"The major was never in the last World War.  
But he was in the Weimar Wehrmacht."  
  
"I'm sorry！"   
Iser continued with a smile,。  
"but I have great respect for the professional soldiers that General von Seeckt produced during the 'special' era. They have always been my role models."   
Iser knew that the naive little adjutant would learn from his stodgy old Junker, and the compliments were likely to be well received in order to lay a good foundation for cooperation in his future contacts.  
The naive little adjutant's message was enough to paint a picture of an old-fashioned Wehrmacht officer in his 40s, conservative in his thinking and rigid in his behaviour.

"A soldier's example and example?"

The dark-haired adjutant at this point suddenly curled the corners of his mouth with irrepressible contempt.

Aware at once that the young Nazis-era officer was clearly unhappy with his superiors' old-fashioned ways, Iser took advantage of the occasion to make a few witty quips at the expense of the old-school Junker aristocrat, and sure enough, the young adjutant immediately showed great interest in the subject.  
This cheered him on. The Gestapo, after all, had the job of overseeing the Wehrmacht around it, and it would have been nice if major Karlberg had been able to hammer a nail of his own.  
With that in mind, Iser happily peeled off a third piece of chocolate from the plate next to him - the spoils of war were delicious.


	4. Chapter 4

"Winter! While I'm back in Berlin, you'd better behave yourself and don't ride around when you have nothing to do, especially in those deserted woods where, god knows, there might be Dutch resisters hiding... And don't keep strange things while I'm away."  
A young officer in the uniform of a Lieutenant of the Wehrmander came in with a bundle of papers, and the magnificent silver curve of his breast caught Captain Iser's eye -- the adjutant's ribbon that marked the adjutant's identity.  
The lieutenant in the adjutant's uniform said something strange as he laid the papers on the table.  
He looks and ACTS like a stern parent warning his naughty child before going away.  
Iser suddenly felt as if her throat were jammed by something, and the officer across the street was visibly stunned when he saw the intruder in the room.

For a moment, the atmosphere in the room was like jelly pudding, transparent and frozen but trembling uneasily.

"Ah -- you've come at a good time. This Captain Iser has come to see Major Karlberg, and you'll help arrange it?"  
The young man sitting in the chair, on seeing the visitor, sprang to his feet, rushed up to the lieutenant in his adjutant's scarf, smiled in a strange way, patted the lieutenant on the shoulder, and disappeared quickly at the door of the parlor.  
A stunned Wehrmander lieutenant and a puzzled Iser remained.

Then the Wehrmacht lieutenant looked up and down at Iser, who was wearing the black uniform of the Gestapo, and suddenly, with an angry face, slammed the door and left the poor, utterly bewildered Gestapo alone in the parlor.  
About five or six minutes later, the stern adjutant, with a fresh look of rage, came into the drawing-room, shouted "Heil Hitler" to Iser in the most vile and stern manner, and coldly informed him that Major Karlberg was waiting to see him in his office.

Iser hastily returned the salute and entered Major Karlberg's office with all sorts of confusion.  
"Pa" -

The metal studs on the soles of the army boots made a dull thud against the heavy oak floor.  
Iser didn't know whether she had been saluting or stomping on the floor, but it seemed unprofessional for an intelligence agent to show his emotions too visibly.  
But what he saw made the Gestapo even forget to shout "Heil Hitler".  
Behind a large desk opposite, a Wehrmacht major sat with a pile of ornlike MEDALS on the front of his uniform, as if he had just jumped from the cover of a Wehrmacht magazine.  
Cap below an identity look completely out of proportion with the face, the face has just completed the transformation from child to adult, the smooth surface like a girl, with the number of his chest and silver medal in a wide range of major epaulettes, especially with that gorgeous to bright eyes of the iron cross knight, can have a children deliberately the elders uniform funny feeling.

For a moment, he thought he was hallucinating -- why the face looked so familiar, why it looked just like the little lieutenant in the riding costume!  
This bizarre situation made Iser feel like he had gone back in time around him and was involved in a house game playing with a group of big boys on horseback.   
The room fell silent for a moment, while the Major of the Wehrmacht sat patiently behind his desk, waiting for Iser to say something.  
The Major leaned forward to relax his straight back and recline in the back of his chair behind him.  
It was all an illusion...  
The only explanation that Isel gets is the rational and careful analysis of the situation that an intelligence agent should have.  
He had the illusion that he was leafing through a military magazine produced by the disingenuous Propaganda department of the Third Reich, from which the major happened to have dropped a coloured illustration.  
"I am sorry, Captain Iser, but I have just received word that your car won't be repaired today.  
But...  
That's all right. I'll send you a car when you go. '  
The caustic voice tore the magazine in Iser's head.

It's the familiar Berlin accent, the relaxed tone that hovers between put-downs and jokes.

He felt a twitch in the corners of his mouth and this may be the second time he has shown emotion in front of his subjects today.  
As a Gestapo, he was being made fun of today. No wonder the Wehrmacht soldiers gave him that look.

"Major Sturm sent me to investigate the attack on you."

As an intelligence officer, the reason always came first. He had to finish his work before he settled the score with this fool who had tricked him!   
"Good, I've been waiting for you for a long time. This is really bad..."  
"Then allow me to ask you some questions."  
With an almost insolent interruption, he pulled out a little notebook to get to the point.  
"I wonder how you can be so sure that the attack was carried out by the British and not by the other Dutch resistance groups, given what is known, that you have reported to Major Sturm exactly that the attack was carried out by the British?  
And, with all due respect, you are said to have been wounded in this attack, but I see no sign of it."

The young man who appeared to be the Major blinked, with a false expression of perplexity.

"All right!  
Although I have conclusive evidence that the attack was carried out by the British, the most important piece of evidence has just been destroyed..."

"Tell me in detail the course of the destruction of evidence.".

The cold, businesslike tone of Iser's voice did not change the attitude of the Karlberg Major in the opposite direction, who, after glancing up and down at a group of earnest Gestapo men, slowly replied: "Just now, you destroyed the last three English chocolates in our hands."  
With a shake of the pen, which nearly punctured the notebook in his hand, Iser looked up at Major Karlberg, and an angry flush soon took hold of his white face.  
"You know what? Wehrman's doesn't have as much candy supply as SS, so I had a hard time stopping the boys in this camp who were trying to eat the evidence."  
The Major enjoyed Captain Iser's expression with satisfaction.  
"As for injuries, imagine if one day you were riding your horse for a walk without provoking anyone, and suddenly an English box full of forty pounds of chocolate swooped down from the sky and fell right on your horse. Would you be all right?  
I had set aside three chocolate bars for your investigation, because we don't have SS benefits in the Wehrmander, we don't have candy.  
How hard it is to keep a whole box of authentic British chocolate in such a crowd without sweeteners or cocoa butter substitutes.  
But when you came, you destroyed, without another word, the evidence I had taken so much trouble to preserve..."

"Major Karlberg said, and from behind his desk he conjured up a box with English written on it.  
Iser took a good look. It was a standard English supply drop box.  
A rage of humiliation and ridicule nearly made him reach for the gun at his waist.  
It took him some time to let his reason overcome his impulse, but a second wave, which challenged his endurance, roared back like a rising tide, hammering away at his weak intellectual defenses.  
"... Well, I have given you a complete account of this attack.  
I think, as an omnipotent Gestapo, you would like to have the British asshole who dropped this case in my office this time next week."

Iser glared at the rambling asshole, well aware that Major Klaerberg must have known how absurd the request was, and that the only reason for doing so was to tease himself.

"Well, I've got a lot of work to do. You can go back now."

Major Karlberg stopped his wild fantasy of revenge and looked up at the clock behind Iser, who sensed that he was actually secretly admiring the shifting colors of red and white on his cheeks.

Iser took a deep breath. Once again, shamefully, he skipped the heil Hitler protocol and turned silently toward the door.  
He did not mean to insult the Fuhrer, but was afraid that by speaking now he would let impulse break the already precarious barrier of reason and commit some act of violence against the unity of the SS and Wehrmacht.   
As Iser angrily opened the heavy door, the familiar vicious voice said again -- "Remember!This time next week I'll be in my office teaching myself to that English asshole who threw chocolates on top of my head!"

"Crash!"  
Unable to remain calm and patient any longer, Iser finally slammed the door in front of the man who might be called "Sir."  
This is probably an extremely rare occurrence in the German army.  
After leaving the Major's office, Iser discovered that his humiliation did not end with the loud slamming of doors. As they made their way from the building to the sentry post, a large number of Wehrman soldiers chased Iser's face with ultant or meaningful eyes, looking as happy as a group of bad boys watching a girl crying in anger. He was certainly not the major's first victim. In the spirit of an intelligence agent who is calm and sensible, he managed to keep his temper and walked calmly out of the Wehrmacht barracks. When he finally managed to get rid of the horde of irritating glances, a little calm quickly reminded him that he seemed to be forgetting something.  
'Cars!  
Iser's fists suddenly clenched - he had forgotten to take the car major Karlberg had promised him!

Let him go back and get further derision from those bastards in the Wehrmacht?  
This is absolutely impossible!  
It was not much to walk less than ten kilometres back.  
But even that didn't stop the bastards from sneering...  
Just then, a rumbling "thud" came from behind him from far and near, and Iser turned to see a Wehrmacht motorcyclist on a Sidecar motorcycle beside him.  
"Captain, you were in such a hurry that I caught you! I've been waiting for you in front of my office, and they tell me you've been away for a long time!"   
An earthy voice with a strong East Prussian accent was accompanied by genuine anxiety.  
"It is... Major Karlberg sent it to you? "  
Iser narrowed his eyes incredulously at the biker and his sidecar, for the very, very nasty major who had said he would send a car was now a sidecar, and he was not sure if this was a new form of humiliation for the major.  
"I am very sorry, but our car has just been dispatched to take General Albrecht to the airport. The General is returning to Berlin today. There are a few too many officers with us this time..."  
The East Prussian soldier replied timidly, but the information he gave was consistent with what Iser knew. Iser looked up at his watch and the general time matched the motorcyclist's report.  
"All right! You must know the way."  
Iser was going to make do with the sidecar, which was better than walking back on his own, anyway.  
'Of course!"  
The biker replied confidently. With a cold face, Iser jumped into the bike's sidecar, nodded to the biker and made a "go" sign.


	5. Chapter 5

Five seconds later, the moment came when Iser suffered his greatest mental blow since joining the army. As a Gestapo, he thought he had seen a great variety of torments, but all of them were weak compared to the east Prussian motorcyclist. After all - no matter how cruel torture is, there is at least a way out of "confession".  
Mental and physical torture can empty the mind, but not the stomach.  
Iser stumbled in amid the astonished eyes of the Gestapo office guards. The sensation in his stomach made him stagger like a drunk in the office bathroom. Almost everyone in the hall saw Captain Iser hit his head on the doorpost as he rushed in, and waited nearly ten minutes before he saw his pale face dragging himself weakly out of the bathroom.  
At that moment, the motorcyclist who had escorted Captain Iser was quietly hiding in a corner of the office hall, quietly following the crowd. Those beautiful black eyes under the thick windproof goggles finally appeared, enjoying the farce directed by his own hand.  
As poor Lieutenant Iser stumbled upstairs, the author of the farcical drama finally took off his heavy helmet, picked up a German “Signal” from the side table, and read it casually. After a while, the motorcycle soldier's mouth twitched a little unpleasantly.  
The page of the magazine in his hand was impressively printed with the pictures of Lieutenant Colonel Witkin von Lawson, who is the combat hero on the Eastern Front.   
The newly promoted German Defense Forces Lieutenant Colonel not only has the typical Aryan appearance that both the Imperial Propaganda Department and Himmler like, but also has a series of armbands for destroying tanks, and a medal (Ritterkreuz des Eisernen Kreuzes mit Eichenlaub)hanging between the collars, stung the motorcycle soldier who felt even wearing goggles could not escape the harsh light of the oak leaf.  
The motorcyclist tossed the magazine aside, perhaps stiffened by his hard waterproof trech coat, got up impatiently, paced up and down, and went straight to a sergeant working at a table.  
'I'll call your major!

The sergeant looked up at the motorcyclist and said in an unfeeling professional voice, "Your credentials."

The motorcyclist unbuttoned his windbreaker and fumbled for his credentials in his uniform. He had just unbuttoned his collar when a glaring knight's Cross appeared and the SS sergeant gave a sharp leap of his eye.  
Then the open coat, with its collar and epaulettes indicating rank, made the sergeant, who had been sitting in his chair, jump up and noisily close the heels of his boots.

'Excuse me, Mr Major!  
I didn't know your rank."

The Major nodded and, as usual, took the papers from his breast pocket and handed them to the other.  
The sergeant turned his papers back with a symbolic glance and stood at attention outside his desk.  
If Major Sturm were to break into a stranger in his office, looking at his gaunt subordinates, he would think that sitting opposite him was a recently tortured resistance rather than a gestapo elite recently honoured by the Imperial Security Service.  
The telephone on Major Sturm's desk rang just as Iser was about to speak.  
Sturm picked up the phone and listened with a poker face that proved he was a veteran intelligence worker.  
"Yes, as you wish."  
Sturm quietly said the only thing in the call before quietly hanging up.  
"Major, I fully understand how Major Karlberg of the Wehrmacht was attacked by the British!"  
Iser was pale because he spoke a familiar name, and then a blush of shame rose over his face. He could not wait to tell his superiors how much the monstrous Wehrmacht major had gone out of his way to humiliate them, the Gestapo.  
"Very well, Iser, I'm always pleased with your efficiency. Now that you have found out, then the follow-up processing work, also by you to solve!"  
"No, major, listen to me --" As Soon as Iser's indignant grievance was out, he was stopped by his cunning and experienced superior.  
"Iser, you don't have to tell me the details. Add in the time you were originally given to do the research, and you will be given 2 weeks to deal with the matter. Also, major Karlberg, as the Wehrmacht officer in charge of cooperating with our intelligence, had not yet transferred his duties to us because of the attack, and you took this opportunity to do so as well. If 2 weeks is not enough time, you can apply for more time. Well, you can go now! Heil Hitler!"


	6. We fall too easily into the trap of being our worst enemies

Captain Iser got an unusual look when he showed his identification card to the guard at the camp gate. In general, wehrmacht sentries were wary of the Gestapo's arrival. It was probably the sentry who was used to the gestapo's swaggering, insolent manner. As a Gestapo, he would have made his appearance by proudly handing out his identification card through a car window in front of a sentry and then walking away. Today, however, it was unusual for him to walk.  
As the sentry checked his papers, Iser saw the rider again, his white riding costume striking against the plain grey of the Wehrmacht uniforms.  
A private, who had just taken his horse and was listening to him in a low voice, straightened his heels and shouted, "Yes, Sir!"  
Iser knew that he had not misidentified him.  
The man was indeed an officer in the Wehrmacht.

The unidentified Wehrmann officer saw him at the same time, and when Iser came in from his post, he greeted him with a smile.  
"I have business with Major Karlberg. Please take me to him!"  
To avoid the unnecessary and likely unpleasantness, Iser preceded the conversation with a quick Nazi salute and a routine statement of purpose.  
With the same apologetic but cynical smile, the rider replied, "I'm sorry, but the Major was wounded in an attack the other day, and if we hear gestapo calling for him again, I'm afraid his wounds will never be healed again!"  
'I was sent to investigate the attack on the Major...'  
As Iser finished, the rider paused for a moment. He then gave him a military salute and laughed, with an infinitely strange smile.  
"Hello, I'm Lieutenant Borrmann, Lieutenant Karlberg's lieutenant.  
As adjutant I was responsible for his day-to-day programme. "  
Iser thought it was a bit odd, but after some thought he nodded politely and forced a smile.  
After this, he found the atmosphere even stranger...  
Even the eyes of the soldiers passing by looked strange.  
The major's adjutant, an enthusiastic young man, did not seem to care about the wehrmacht's frumpily formal manner and was in no hurry to change back into full uniform.  
He ushered Captain Iser directly into a large sitting room outside the Major's office.

On a small round table in the living room there was a fine plate, which was comical because of the excess of chocolate and sweets.

'Don't mention it, an Englishman's present!  
The young adjutant smiled, more sincerely than he had just done.  
Iser is not surprised. Recently, because of his hard work, he plays 14 British intelligence agents every day like a schizophrenic, constantly reporting his work progress and material needs. At his suggestion, the British continuously drop all kinds of good things into this rich land, from ammunition equipment to candy, tobacco and alcohol... In short, all the necessities of life, as long as the he-controlled radio asked, the British would do their best to satisfy them.  
So Iser was delighted to break away from a piece of chocolate and enjoy the spoils of her own wisdom. 'I'm sorry, but the Major really can't see you at this time. But if you have any questions about the attack, you can ask me first. As for your car, don't worry. I've already had it repaired, and I expect it will be in even better condition when you leave than when you arrive."  
Such a meticulous, well-rounded style convinced Him of the man's adjutant status and of his superior, Major Karlberg, as a typical stuffy, conformist Junker aristocrat. The idea struck Iser, and since he had been in such a hurry that he had forgotten to consult major Karlberg's files, it was obvious that it was necessary to talk to the young adjutant now. As an intelligence officer, you always have to know something about the background of the person you're investigating.  
Within minutes, Iser was confident in the questioning skills he had developed in her intelligence work.  
In a few words, he confirmed from the young adjutant what he had previously judged to be the major -- rigid, stubborn, a junker aristocrat through and through, the military style of the old Prussian officers' regiment, some connections among the generals and marshals of the Wehrmacht...  
Iser continued to chat pleasantly with the naive young adjutant opposite, but the conversation continued, consciously or unconsciously, to explore.  
"Well, then, it's a little slow for an officer who's been in two wars to become a major..."

He spoke slowly on purpose, and in the middle of his sentence was interrupted by a young man in a horseman's dress.

"The major was never in the last World War.  
But he was in the Weimar Wehrmacht."  
"I'm sorry！"   
Iser continued with a smile,。  
"but I have great respect for the professional soldiers that General von Seeckt produced during the 'special' era. They have always been my role models."   
Iser knew that the naive little adjutant would learn from his stodgy old Junker, and the compliments were likely to be well received in order to lay a good foundation for cooperation in his future contacts.  
The naive little adjutant's message was enough to paint a picture of an old-fashioned Wehrmacht officer in his 40s, conservative in his thinking and rigid in his behaviour.

"A soldier's example and example?"

The dark-haired adjutant at this point suddenly curled the corners of his mouth with irrepressible contempt.

Aware at once that the young Nazis-era officer was clearly unhappy with his superiors' old-fashioned ways, Iser took advantage of the occasion to make a few witty quips at the expense of the old-school Junker aristocrat, and sure enough, the young adjutant immediately showed great interest in the subject.  
This cheered him on. The Gestapo, after all, had the job of overseeing the Wehrmacht around it, and it would have been nice if major Karlberg had been able to hammer a nail of his own.  
With that in mind, Iser happily peeled off a third piece of chocolate from the plate next to him - the spoils of war were delicious.


	7. Evidence of being eaten

"Winter! While I'm back in Berlin, you'd better behave yourself and don't ride around when you have nothing to do, especially in those deserted woods where, god knows, there might be Dutch resisters hiding... And don't keep strange things while I'm away."  
A young officer in the uniform of a Lieutenant of the Wehrmander came in with a bundle of papers, and the magnificent silver curve of his breast caught Captain Iser's eye -- the adjutant's ribbon that marked the adjutant's identity.  
The lieutenant in the adjutant's uniform said something strange as he laid the papers on the table.  
He looks and ACTS like a stern parent warning his naughty child before going away.  
Iser suddenly felt as if her throat were jammed by something, and the officer across the street was visibly stunned when he saw the intruder in the room.

For a moment, the atmosphere in the room was like jelly pudding, transparent and frozen but trembling uneasily.  
"Ah -- you've come at a good time. This Captain Iser has come to see Major Karlberg, and you'll help arrange it?"  
The young man sitting in the chair, on seeing the visitor, sprang to his feet, rushed up to the lieutenant in his adjutant's scarf, smiled in a strange way, patted the lieutenant on the shoulder, and disappeared quickly at the door of the parlor.  
A stunned Wehrmander lieutenant and a puzzled Iser remained.

Then the Wehrmacht lieutenant looked up and down at Iser, who was wearing the black uniform of the Gestapo, and suddenly, with an angry face, slammed the door and left the poor, utterly bewildered Gestapo alone in the parlor.  
About five or six minutes later, the stern adjutant, with a fresh look of rage, came into the drawing-room, shouted "Heil Hitler" to Iser in the most vile and stern manner, and coldly informed him that Major Karlberg was waiting to see him in his office.

Iser hastily returned the salute and entered Major Karlberg's office with all sorts of confusion.  
"Pa" -

The metal studs on the soles of the army boots made a dull thud against the heavy oak floor.  
Iser didn't know whether she had been saluting or stomping on the floor, but it seemed unprofessional for an intelligence agent to show his emotions too visibly.  
But what he saw made the Gestapo even forget to shout "Heil Hitler".  
Behind a large desk opposite, a Wehrmacht major sat with a pile of ornlike MEDALS on the front of his uniform, as if he had just jumped from the cover of a Wehrmacht magazine.  
Cap below an identity look completely out of proportion with the face, the face has just completed the transformation from child to adult, the smooth surface like a girl, with the number of his chest and silver medal in a wide range of major epaulettes, especially with that gorgeous to bright eyes of the iron cross knight, can have a children deliberately the elders uniform funny feeling.

For a moment, he thought he was hallucinating -- why the face looked so familiar, why it looked just like the little lieutenant in the riding costume!  
This bizarre situation made Iser feel like he had gone back in time around him and was involved in a house game playing with a group of big boys on horseback.   
The room fell silent for a moment, while the Major of the Wehrmacht sat patiently behind his desk, waiting for Iser to say something.  
The Major leaned forward to relax his straight back and recline in the back of his chair behind him.  
It was all an illusion...  
The only explanation that Isel gets is the rational and careful analysis of the situation that an intelligence agent should have.  
He had the illusion that he was leafing through a military magazine produced by the disingenuous Propaganda department of the Third Reich, from which the major happened to have dropped a coloured illustration.  
"I am sorry, Captain Iser, but I have just received word that your car won't be repaired today.  
But...  
That's all right. I'll send you a car when you go. '  
The caustic voice tore the magazine in Iser's head.

It's the familiar Berlin accent, the relaxed tone that hovers between put-downs and jokes.

He felt a twitch in the corners of his mouth and this may be the second time he has shown emotion in front of his subjects today.  
As a Gestapo, he was being made fun of today. No wonder the Wehrmacht soldiers gave him that look.

"Major Sturm sent me to investigate the attack on you."

As an intelligence officer, the reason always came first. He had to finish his work before he settled the score with this fool who had tricked him! 


	8. Chapter 8

"Good, I've been waiting for you for a long time. This is really bad..."  
"Then allow me to ask you some questions."  
With an almost insolent interruption, he pulled out a little notebook to get to the point.  
"I wonder how you can be so sure that the attack was carried out by the British and not by the other Dutch resistance groups, given what is known, that you have reported to Major Sturm exactly that the attack was carried out by the British?  
And, with all due respect, you are said to have been wounded in this attack, but I see no sign of it."

The young man who appeared to be the Major blinked, with a false expression of perplexity.

"All right!  
Although I have conclusive evidence that the attack was carried out by the British, the most important piece of evidence has just been destroyed..."

"Tell me in detail the course of the destruction of evidence.".

The cold, businesslike tone of Iser's voice did not change the attitude of the Karlberg Major in the opposite direction, who, after glancing up and down at a group of earnest Gestapo men, slowly replied: "Just now, you destroyed the last three English chocolates in our hands."  
With a shake of the pen, which nearly punctured the notebook in his hand, Iser looked up at Major Karlberg, and an angry flush soon took hold of his white face.  
"You know what? Wehrman's doesn't have as much candy supply as SS, so I had a hard time stopping the boys in this camp who were trying to eat the evidence."  
The Major enjoyed Captain Iser's expression with satisfaction.

"As for injuries, imagine if one day you were riding your horse for a walk without provoking anyone, and suddenly an English box full of forty pounds of chocolate swooped down from the sky and fell right on your horse. Would you be all right?  
I had set aside three chocolate bars for your investigation, because we don't have SS benefits in the Wehrmander, we don't have candy.  
How hard it is to keep a whole box of authentic British chocolate in such a crowd without sweeteners or cocoa butter substitutes.  
But when you came, you destroyed, without another word, the evidence I had taken so much trouble to preserve..."

"Major Karlberg said, and from behind his desk he conjured up a box with English written on it.  
Iser took a good look. It was a standard English supply drop box.  
A rage of humiliation and ridicule nearly made him reach for the gun at his waist.  
It took him some time to let his reason overcome his impulse, but a second wave, which challenged his endurance, roared back like a rising tide, hammering away at his weak intellectual defenses.

"... Well, I have given you a complete account of this attack.  
I think, as an omnipotent Gestapo, you would like to have the British asshole who dropped this case in my office this time next week."

Iser glared at the rambling asshole, well aware that Major Klaerberg must have known how absurd the request was, and that the only reason for doing so was to tease himself.

"Well, I've got a lot of work to do. You can go back now."

Major Karlberg stopped his wild fantasy of revenge and looked up at the clock behind Iser, who sensed that he was actually secretly admiring the shifting colors of red and white on his cheeks.

Iser took a deep breath. Once again, shamefully, he skipped the heil Hitler protocol and turned silently toward the door.  
He did not mean to insult the Fuhrer, but was afraid that by speaking now he would let impulse break the already precarious barrier of reason and commit some act of violence against the unity of the SS and Wehrmacht. 

As Iser angrily opened the heavy door, the familiar vicious voice said again -- "Remember!This time next week I'll be in my office teaching myself to that English asshole who threw chocolates on top of my head!"

"Crash!"  
Unable to remain calm and patient any longer, Iser finally slammed the door in front of the man who might be called "Sir."  
This is probably an extremely rare occurrence in the German army.


	9. Chapter 9

After leaving the Major's office, Iser discovered that his humiliation did not end with the loud slamming of doors.  
As they made their way from the building to the sentry post, a large number of Wehrman soldiers chased Iser's face with ultant or meaningful eyes, looking as happy as a group of bad boys watching a girl crying in anger.  
He was certainly not the major's first victim. In the spirit of an intelligence agent who is calm and sensible, he managed to keep his temper and walked calmly out of the Wehrmacht barracks. When he finally managed to get rid of the horde of irritating glances, a little calm quickly reminded him that he seemed to be forgetting something.

'Cars!  
Iser's fists suddenly clenched - he had forgotten to take the car major Karlberg had promised him!

Let him go back and get further derision from those bastards in the Wehrmacht?  
This is absolutely impossible!  
It was not much to walk less than ten kilometres back.  
But even that didn't stop the bastards from sneering...  
Just then, a rumbling "thud" came from behind him from far and near, and Iser turned to see a Wehrmacht motorcyclist on a Sidecar motorcycle beside him.  
"Captain, you were in such a hurry that I caught you! I've been waiting for you in front of my office, and they tell me you've been away for a long time!"  
An earthy voice with a strong East Prussian accent was accompanied by genuine anxiety.  
"It is... Major Karlberg sent it to you? "  
Iser narrowed his eyes incredulously at the biker and his sidecar, for the very, very nasty major who had said he would send a car was now a sidecar, and he was not sure if this was a new form of humiliation for the major.  
"I am very sorry, but our car has just been dispatched to take General Albrecht to the airport. The General is returning to Berlin today. There are a few too many officers with us this time..."  
The East Prussian soldier replied timidly, but the information he gave was consistent with what Iser knew. Iser looked up at his watch and the general time matched the motorcyclist's report.  
"All right! You must know the way."  
Iser was going to make do with the sidecar, which was better than walking back on his own, anyway.  
'Of course!"  
The motorcyclist replied confidently. With a cold face, Iser jumped into the bike's sidecar, nodded to the biker and made a "go" sign.  
  
Five seconds later, the moment came when Iser suffered his greatest mental blow since joining the army. As a Gestapo, he thought he had seen a great variety of torments, but all of them were weak compared to the east Prussian motorcyclist. After all - no matter how cruel torture is, there is at least a way out of "confession".  
Mental and physical torture can empty the mind, but not the stomach.  
Iser stumbled in amid the astonished eyes of the Gestapo office guards. The sensation in his stomach made him stagger like a drunk in the office bathroom. Almost everyone in the hall saw Captain Iser hit his head on the doorpost as he rushed in, and waited nearly ten minutes before he saw his pale face dragging himself weakly out of the bathroom.  
At that moment, the motorcyclist who had escorted Captain Iser was quietly hiding in a corner of the office hall, quietly following the crowd. Those beautiful black eyes under the thick windproof goggles finally appeared, enjoying the farce directed by his own hand.


	10. A troublesome heir

As poor Lieutenant Iser stumbled upstairs, the author of the farcical drama finally took off his heavy helmet, picked up a German “Signal” from the side table, and read it casually. After a while, the motorcycle soldier's mouth twitched a little unpleasantly.  
The page of the magazine in his hand was impressively printed with the pictures of Lieutenant Colonel Witkin von Lawson, who is the combat hero on the Eastern Front.   
The newly promoted German Defense Forces Lieutenant Colonel not only has the typical Aryan appearance that both the Imperial Propaganda Department and Himmler like, but also has a series of armbands for destroying tanks, and a medal (Ritterkreuz des Eisernen Kreuzes mit Eichenlaub)hanging between the collars, stung the motorcycle soldier who felt even wearing goggles could not escape the harsh light of the oak leaf.  
The motorcyclist tossed the magazine aside, perhaps stiffened by his hard waterproof trech coat, got up impatiently, paced up and down, and went straight to a sergeant working at a table.

'I'll call your major!

The sergeant looked up at the motorcyclist and said in an unfeeling professional voice, "Your credentials."

The motorcyclist unbuttoned his windbreaker and fumbled for his credentials in his uniform. He had just unbuttoned his collar when a glaring knight's Cross appeared and the SS sergeant gave a sharp leap of his eye.  
Then the open coat, with its collar and epaulettes indicating rank, made the sergeant, who had been sitting in his chair, jump up and noisily close the heels of his boots.

'Excuse me, Mr Major!  
I didn't know your rank."

The Major nodded and, as usual, took the papers from his breast pocket and handed them to the other.  
The sergeant turned his papers back with a symbolic glance and stood at attention outside his desk.   
If Major Sturm were to break into a stranger in his office, looking at his gaunt subordinates, he would think that sitting opposite him was a recently tortured resistance rather than a gestapo elite recently honoured by the Imperial Security Service.  
The telephone on Major Sturm's desk rang just as Iser was about to speak.  
Sturm picked up the phone and listened with a poker face that proved he was a veteran intelligence worker.  
"Yes, as you wish."  
Sturm quietly said the only thing in the call before quietly hanging up.  
"Major, I fully understand how Major Karlberg of the Wehrmacht was attacked by the British!"  
Iser was pale because he spoke a familiar name, and then a blush of shame rose over his face.He could not wait to tell his superiors how much the monstrous Wehrmacht major had gone out of his way to humiliate them, the Gestapo.  
"Very well, Iser, I'm always pleased with your efficiency.Now that you have found out, then the follow-up processing work, also by you to solve!"  
"No, major, listen to me --" As Soon as Iser's indignant grievance was out, he was stopped by his cunning and experienced superior.  
"Iser, you don't have to tell me the details. Add in the time you were originally given to do the research, and you will be given 2 weeks to deal with the matter. Also, major Karlberg, as the Wehrmacht officer in charge of cooperating with our intelligence, had not yet transferred his duties to us because of the attack, and you took this opportunity to do so as well. If 2 weeks is not enough time, you can apply for more time. Well, you can go now! Heil Hitler!"  
Major Sturm was wily in his words, giving Iser no room for reaction.  
Finally, with his mind still blank, Iser was coaxed out of the office by her boss.  
Major Sturm breathed a sigh of relief as poor Captain Iser stumbled out of his office.  
As a gestapo officer for many years, he knew the background of Major Karlberg, who had been the focus of Sturm's attention while he was working in Berlin.  
Of course, the offspring of each of the chaebol families whose heavy industry in the Third Reich monopolized were given more or less attention.  
Than others, however, Winter von Karlberg has always been the focus on the special characters, the specific reason, of course, not the level of intelligence could see the whole picture, but Sturm with some contradictions, and reasoning about an intelligence personnel can know, Chloe's major has a hidden mysterious origin, not just the sole heir to the family.  
It was obvious, however, that all the high officials of the Third Reich had some shady dealings with the family, so all his secrets were well protected.  
As the war progressed, some of his resources became more and more important to Germany, so taking care of the major became the biggest problem for gestapo men everywhere Major Karlberg went.


	11. Chapter 11

Major Karlberg was a headache, and on this issue there was a rare degree of consensus among the historically hostile Wehrmacht, SS and Gestapo.  
This may explain why the major is secretly nicknamed the "miracle on Earth".  
He doesn't pull all the bad labels that the upper class dudes should have. Bullying colleagues, romantic, depraved life...

Iser had long heard that when this unruly young master was working as an instructor at the German Wehrmacht military academy, he shot and sniped at the students who talked back to him, and an officer colleague who had minor conflicts with the major, because he went to the principal to complain. When Major Karlberg interfered with the classroom teaching of his swordsmanship class, he was immediately thrown on the Russian front line mercilessly by the principal. Although Sturm was very reluctant to part with Iser, a subordinate who was talented in intelligence work, compared with the far and cold Eastern Front, abandoning Iser-God would forgive him.  
  
Major Sturm faintly felt that he was a little cruel, but he felt that Captain Iser, a guy who only loves technology and does not come to the world, deserves to offend some powerful and powerful in his work because of his rigid methods. So Major Sturm immediately relieved his feelings and guilt, and easily continued to devote himself to his busy work.   
The next time Captain Iser saw Major Karlberg was only twenty minutes after he had left the major's motorcycle.  
When he shuffled out of his boss's office, the blackhaired motorcyclist with the smirk was already waiting for him at the door.  
The 10 a.m. sun was shining through the corridor window on the man's shiny black motorbike windbreaker.  
The white collar and the cold iron cross of the knight stood out against the blackness of the coat.

"You're the first person to ride my motorcycle for more than 10 minutes."

The motorcyclist's voice sounded extremely vicious.  
He walked past with a mocking smile, the tacks on his army boots thumping Iser's heart like an ice pick.

Iser bit his lower lip and said nothing. This is an extremely sensible behavior, because once he speaks, he really doesn't know what reckless words he will break out.

Major Karlberg, dressed as a motorcyclist, approached Iser and looked closely at his black SS uniform.  
All of a sudden, he felt a burning, stinging sensation all over him. 

"If I guess correctly, this suit of yours is one of those ordinary uniforms that are not more than 150 Reichmarks."

The ice pick that pierced Iser's heart was being hammered by the demon.

With the last of her strength, Iser stepped away from the demon, gave the asshole an angry look, and turned and stormed away.  
It was a pity, however, that the indignant departure of this manner of expression, in conjunction with his still top-heavy and varied steps, seemed very amusing.  
"Captain Iser, this is for you.  
Just deciphered."  
A baby-faced second lieutenant suddenly shot out at some point, handing over a confidential folder with a Nazi eagle on it, and deftly rescuing poor Captain Iser.  
When he saw his work, he was in a better mood. The bad mood of being haunted by demons was immediately banished to the clouds. The pleasure of being immersed in his work could cure everything for him.  
Karlberg stood quietly, amused by the change that could transform him in an instant.  
For a moment, he watched with interest the absorbed expression of the young man in the cheap Gestapo uniform, and sensed that the two little Gestapo officers were using confidential intelligence to screen themselves out.


	12. Chapter 12

The piece of fresh intelligence that Iser had in his hands had just been picked up by his men from a secret British radio station.  
It contained all the details of the next RAF airdrop to the Dutch Resistance.  
Captain Iser looked carefully at the information in the document, and with this devoted attitude he silently chased off the unpopular major next to him.

Sensing Karlberg's observation, Iser bowed his head and gave up, determined to carry out the silent order.  
After a few minutes of this stalemate, the bored Major turned towards the staircase with a dull look, his heavy motorman windbreaker making his steps seem heavy.  
And the baby-faced lieutenant who came to his rescue seemed unmoved by the major's departure -- in any case, the kind of blatant gestapo antagonism the Wehrmacht had become commonplace in the building.

"I'm sorry...  
I need to borrow your captain."

Before he could raise his hair at the hair-raising sound, he felt his arm being clamped by something harder than a sappers, and then, in the agony of her arm, he was dragged off unaware by the man in the windbreaker.  
"Captain Iser..."

The boyish second lieutenant stared dumbstruck at Captain Iser's capture by Major Krollberg in full view, like a murderous black cat swooping on an unprepared sparrow.  
People along the way watched the hijacking of the Gestapo headquarters in amazement, but no one stopped because they knew why major Klaerberg should not be offended.  
Finally Major Karlberg roared off with his booty.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
A Juncker plane hovers above the blue skies of the Netherlands, and its passengers are almost always people who can determine the fate of the beautiful country beneath them.

General Albrecht of the Wehrmacht, seated among a group of officers accompanying him, was wearing a red and yellow cornflower collar that stood out in a Field grey uniform, echoing a black and silver collar with oak leaves not far away.  
The owner of the black collar is Ss general Uhnert.

Every Wehrmacht and SS general in the German occupied territories was bound to have some subtle conflict, but the two generals, known for undermining each other, were a headache for the Fuhrer's stronghold far away on German soil.  
  
The plane made a slight jolt in the clouds, then lurched downward, followed by the familiar sight of two generals challenging each other on an unremarkable subject.  
But this sort of defiant awkwardness between the two generals is an almost daily occurrence.  
In today's struggle the Wehrmacht seems to have got off on the wrong foot, losing clearly to the SS in language and grandeur.  
So General Albrecht deftly tore Kuhnert, the bastard, to fingernail size in his heart, still with the haughty composure of an old aristocratic officer.

Behind a scene of intense violence, a young Wehrmacht lieutenant sat in the back of the plane, absorbed in his notepad, unconcerned by the impending situation.   
The third Reich and the Japanese strategic materials negotiations are probably at a critical stage, rubber, oil, precision machine tools, military technology...  
The pampered bureaucrats of Berlin are struggling.  
Even before the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, Lieutenant Borrmann had been certain that Japan would go to war with the United States.  
Japan seems in no hurry after America cut off exports of vital strategic commodities such as oil and rubber.  
On the contrary, at this moment, the Japanese showed no interest in the wonderful technology that Germany was trying to recommend -- synthetic petroleum technology. In fact, in every negotiation of strategic material cooperation between Germany and Japan, rubber supply to Germany would appear in Japan's negotiation terms...  
Well, when the rubber fields of Southeast Asia were still in the hands of the Americans, such an island country that produced neither oil nor rubber was so confident that it would trade with Germany as its own specialty. If anyone said that the Japanese were not ready to go to war with the United States, the devil wouldn't believe it!  
Borrmann remembered the day he excitedly ran into his office to tell Major Karlberg that Japan had attacked Pearl Harbor and that The United States had entered the war.  
But the family had transferred large sums of money long before the war broke out, when it made their foreign capital irresistibly profitable.  
In return, the incompetent scion of the family is genuinely and naivety worried about Germany's future. There is no trace of pride or arrogance in the outside world. The only thing in his eyes is a hint of sadness.

Borrman felt helpless before Winter von Karlberg's innocent, sad face.  
As a capitalist -- interest is the first place forever, capital has no motherland!


	13. Chapter 13

But the family, like the rest of Germany's plutocracy, actively supported Hitler's rise to power.  
As one of the monopoly plutocrats who supported Hitler's rise to power, his first few years in power were indeed good. Hitler fulfilled the promises he had made before coming to power.  
Hitler mercilessly killed off a large number of small and medium-sized enterprises, and profits were rapidly concentrated in the hands of the monopoly chaebol.  
But now, as the war deepens, the fuhrer, who now has total control of Germany, is eagerly preparing to squeeze and harvest their former plutocracy supporters.  
"Looks like we're going to have to transfer another huge sum of money to bribe the current Nazi officials in Germany..."  
Borrmann's brown hair was gleaming from the clear sun above the clouds outside the plane's portholes, and he was full of ideas about the benefits of negotiating strategic supplies with Germany and Japan, and lists of bribes to top Nazi officials.  
This made him completely blind to the potential dangers around him. Borrmann's mind was immersed in the notebook filled with records of rubber, steel, and diplomatic negotiations, when suddenly the shadow of a military motorcycle came out of the page and hit him straight in the face, the young gestapo look embarrassed face also faintly flash - when he sat before the cars leave the camp, he once in the window, inadvertently caught a glimpse of a private is pushing a crowe KuaDou motorcycle with sidecar in a hurry.  
"Snap" -- Borrmann's notepad crashes to the floor, interrupting the tense atmosphere.

General Kuhnert, ss, had just tightened his superior smile and looked inquiringly at the wehrmacht lieutenant at the side of the porthole.  
Mr Albrecht needed Mr Borrmann's timely misstep to break the deadlock.  
He had great admiration for lieutenant Borrmann's misstep, and it seemed to him that the young man, who had always done his job well, must have sensed his own embarrassment and defused himself in time.  
General Albrecht liked his subordinate, of course, but there were also some personal needs of his own.  
In Germany, almost all Iraqi politicians know, Chloe's family interests of many transport links, mostly by the young man named Borrman arrangement in person, he for Chloe's family play in the third Reich dignitaries and between each big chaebol families, contacts the deep to the point of ordinary people cannot imagine, even the two generals, Borrman sight in his list may be humble small role.  
The design keeps Major Karlberg "clean" and prevents the heir with no commercial flair from creating any kind of cataclysmic spectacle.  
Borrman bent down to pick up the notebooks he had dropped, ignoring the eyes of the two generals, or simply ignoring their presence in his mind -- Winter, The Motorbike, the Gestapo...  
The sense of crisis was so great that Borrman had only the impulse to break the porthole and jump out at once.  
General Kuhnert's eyes were firmly locked in lieutenant Borrmann von Jacobson's face.  
Although the other person was sitting on the other side of the plane not far from him, Maj. Gen. Kuhnert felt as if he was thousands of miles away.

Jacobson -- a name almost forgotten by everyone, who thought it wasn't his real name anyway.  
Everyone liked to call him Borrmann, and Lieutenant Borrmann liked to forget his last name, which seemed to confirm the rumor that he was the illegitimate son of some important man.  
Of course, they liked to call him not just Borrmann, but "everything" that the gentle and polite little lieutenant brought them.  
In this preference, though sweetened with profit, there was a natural sincerity.  
Borrmann's personality, behavior and dealing with things always make people feel just right gentle and a hint of tacit understanding. Whether it is money or other interests, as long as it is sent from Borrmann, it can always make the recipient feel at ease without any psychological and moral burden.  
Perhaps for this reason, Borrmann was placed next to major Winter von Karlberg, a defiant and often troubled man.  
Borrmann handled master Karlberg's mess perfectly for countless times with his invisible right.  
And the people whom Major Karlberg had been dealing with for so long were as comfortable as if their feet had suddenly landed on the solid ground after a long walk of cliffs and wires.

In the room where the two generals were once again at loggerheads, Lieutenant Borrmann, always sensitive and clever, had no idea that he had become the prey that the two warring generals needed to keep to themselves.  
In his mind-bogglingly detailed account of the rich and powerful, Mr Borrmann erroneously ignores a small background.  
This was not Borrmann's fault, of course, but rather because it had nothing to do with military matters, nothing to do with finance, nothing to do with steel, energy or politics, but something to do with humanity -- the two generals next to him had unmarried daughters at home.  
Wehrmacht General Albrecht was a typical old-school aristocratic officer in the Wehrmacht.  
He had both the traditional German military sense and the fatherly simplicity.  
Disapproving of the authorities' propaganda about racial superiority, he still quietly, out of conventional wisdom, sneers at the shallow, ignorant upstarts who rise fast on the basis of blond racial looks and foolish political fanatics.  
Like all old-school officers, he liked to see his daughter marry a good soldier like himself.  
But for a fatherly simplicity, it was not a good choice to be a so-called war hero, like Major Karlberg, or Lieutenant Colonel Witkin, who poured his passion into the battle. As a soldier, he liked heroes, but he did not like his daughter to be their widow.  
Especially a bastard like Major Karlberg, who would kick a disobedient student out of a plane in class, anyone would be embarrassed to marry him. It is said that his fiancee, under the constant training of the major, has made great progress in military knowledge and is now rich and rich as a military advisor.

Borrmann, seems to be for general albrecht's desire to mold the perfect choice, this seemingly mundane lieutenant, has a tradition of traditional building the bundeswehr point soldier temperament, also have every woman likes warm personality, and reassuring appropriate competence, especially on the relationship between men and women, innocent almost can not find out any flaws.  
Although his rank is a little low, he has some special status and background, which makes his life stable and safe all the way, and even looks like it will continue to be so in the future.


	14. Chapter 14

Unlike the stodgier General Albrecht, the SS general Kuhnert did not share the Nazi ideology, nor did he laugh at the good theories of race propagated by the authorities.  
He was a complete speculator, a gambler interested only in profit.  
His interest in Borrmann was a young man with an astonishingly powerful network of connections built on the monopoly of the third Reich's plutocracy, and the associated vested interests that quietly influenced the country's military and political affairs.  
Many in Berlin's elite knew how important this seemingly insignificant lieutenant was.  
The nazis were sometimes happier to see Lieutenant Borman than to see their mistress.  
And the simpleton Major Karlberg was only a stamp in Borrmann's hand.  
Kuhnert is most interested in Borrmann's fabled and elusive birth -- the illegitimate son of a wealthy aristocrat of southern Virtue.  
On this point, he had already sent an inquiry to ascertain that Lieutenant Borrmann had indeed inherited considerable wealth among the neutral states of South America.  
As a wise man, Kuhnert will not think about his future.  
As for loyalty to Nazi Germany...  
He didn't care if he couldn't eat something like loyalty.

Kuhnert stared at Borrmann for a long time, flipped his finger slightly, and quietly summoned his adjutant.

An hour after Iser was taken by force, he knew why Major Karlberg had taken him, a man who knew nothing about the military but wrote in his office.

The Wehrmacht's battle-hardened professional soldiers look down their noses at the "soldiers" who are capable of snooping, gathering secrets and extorting confessions, but who have almost never had a head-on battle with an enemy.  
Iser had seen this in the eyes of most of the WEhrmacht officers since the day he put on the black Gestapo suit.  
As for Major Karlberg - From the first moment he met this man, Iser could smell contempt.

'This is nonsense, Major!

An old officer of a certain age was indignantly refusing major Karlberg's unreasonable demands.

"It's anti-aircraft artillery!  
Not the turret of your tank."  
'the old officer said, slamming his fist into the table, and Iser felt the shock of the impact pass through the table to his body.

"The trajectory of these guns is completely different!"

"I know there is a great difference, but I want to tell you that I came first in artillery ballistics in military school.  
So, I'm not an artilleryman, but for any ballistic..."

"It's not a ballistics at all!"

The old officer almost roared.

"Your projectile paths have always followed a parabolic trajectory and ended up exploding on the ground, whereas our anti-aircraft guns use bombs with explosive timers that explode on their own in the air..."

Iser, a PhD in linguistics from a prestigious university, was surprised to discover that he did not understand German.

"If the motion of the projectile's center of mass is independent of time..."

"But the projectile motion under coriolis inertial forces..."

Iser was stupefied by the pellets and when he regained his hearing he was unfortunately thrown into another confusion.

"Damping moment", "extreme damping moment", "equatorial damping moment", "Magnus moment"...

Captain Iser briefly and carefully searched his brain for an officer in the German army in the Netherlands called "Damped" or "Magnus" who had served in North Africa.  
By the time Karlberg and the veteran officers had argued about "rifling tangency" and "gyro stability," Iser had come to believe that his Ph.D. in linguistics was an illusion.  
When the topic finally came to "Range dispersal and radiometer compilation", "Increased and decreased surface combustion of Gunpowder", Iser's brain protectively chose a safe mode of temporary deafness.  
  
'But it wasn't my decision!

He was almost taken aback by the way in which a loud German sentence, which he understood, suddenly sounded in the room.

'It's their - decision!

As he spoke, the super hard alloy forceps slammed into Iser's weak shoulder."  
"They", said the Major, with a firmness in his voice.

For a moment the room was eerily silent.  
Iser had a vague sense that the "they" had something to do with him.  
Then he saw Major Karlberg wink wickedly at him, as if threatening to take his side.  
He knew in a flash that Major Karlberg had taken him captive for his Gestapo skin.  
No wonder he was so concerned about the price of his uniform...


	15. Chapter 15

Iser, the poor Gestapo, felt deeply wronged, as the old officer unleashed an unabashed fire of rage at the violation of his authority.

"If that's the case," said the old officer, glaring at the innocent Iser, "then do as you please!"

Then he left with the pride of an old soldier.

"It seems -- you are my lucky mascot!"

The Major looked up and down again, Iser's cheap uniform, with a slightly breezy air, and a satisfied smile appeared on his face.

"So I must ask Fate to let you stay with me a little longer..."

Iser had a tremor in his heart, but before he could express any other thoughts or resistance, Major Karlberg had once again seized him and swept him away in a whirlwind.

The fates always seem to like standing behind the most powerful guy.  
This truth dawned on Captain Iser, who had been kidnapped by Major Karlberg and taken to the anti-aircraft position, as he looked at the deafening roar of the majestic 88mm anti-aircraft guns.

It was an anti-aircraft gun emplacements of eight men, which was temporarily occupied by an excited Major Karlberg, two muscular Wehrmacht men who loaded and fired, and two who carried shells and shells.  
The rest of the soldiers were responsible for turning the gun in all directions, and one was positioned on the gun's directorship according to the data given by the director.

Iser, standing quietly, said rudely that he had by this time been scornfully abandoned by the busy crowd.

Just now he had been dragged all the way to the anti-aircraft position by the mad major, on the emplacement, Karlberg eye up and down in the same way as a look at the goods some kind of Iser, and then shook his head, with a scornful tone, said: "With the same figure as the secretary in your office, I'm afraid it's impossible to do such hard work as filling shells."  
Iser did not have time to feel humiliated by this remark before he was picked up by the Major's alloy pincers and pressed into the gun emplacements .

"But being an observer is an easy job."

The demon's hyperactive voice rang again in Iser's ears.

The operation of the anti-aircraft gun is simple - the gun body can rotate horizontally and the barrel can rotate vertically.  
The direction of the barrel can be coarsely adjusted or slightly adjusted...  
Oh, I'm sorry, but it's none of your business. All you have to do is follow the data given by the director and position yourself on the gun directional...  
It's that simple."

"What did you call that thing?"

Iser replied timidly, who, however profound his linguistic knowledge, was still unable or unable to understand the Major's native German words.

" Fire director!"

The nervous major narrowed his eyes as if with a faint hint of displeasure.

"So...  
This......  
Which is the visualizer and which is the Fire director?"

Iser was immediately greeted by the white eyes of the powerful Wehrmacht artillery-men in their batteries and the more dangerous eyes of Major Alloy Pincers.

"That three-meter-long thing is a visualizer..."

A reloaded Wehrmacht shot him a blank look and replied with a taunt.  
Then, ignoring the useless Gestapo, he rolled up his sleeve, exposed his bulging muscles, and began preparing to carry the shells.


End file.
